


Misfiled

by zulu



Series: Misfiled [1]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: 07-11, Character of Colour, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-21
Updated: 2007-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-02 01:06:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/zulu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House hates change; Foreman knows it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Misfiled

**Misfiled**

Foreman files Mosby's _Dictionary of Medical Terminology_ next to Bentley's _Practical Anatomy of the Rabbit_, on the shelf below a stack of the New England Journal of Medicine but above the pile of Lancets, to the right of Zumdahl's _Biochemistry_. All of them stay well across the room from the well-worn copy of _Grey's_ (and the pristine copy of _Grey's_, and three gradually-newer derivatives of _Grey's_, and the Kapit-Elson _Anatomy Coloring Book_ that House keeps in the credenza behind his desk, and plays with when he thinks no one's watching--or, for effect, when they are). Foreman aligns the edges of each book: one, flush with the shelf; the other, sticking out enough to catch a knee and send a cascade of papers all over the floor. The office is finally back as it should be, with all the department's charting up to date, patient records cross-referenced, and mail sorted (but not answered, because, in the end, Foreman is not Cameron and never will be--since the mail _does_ get answered, he supposes she pops in on her lunch break to do it).

Taub comes in carrying the new yellow pages and city listings and gives him an uncertain grin, as if he doesn't know who's got it worse: Foreman, kneeling next to the shelf, clearly doing House's busywork; or himself, with the phone books, not much better than Stationery's errand boy. When Taub starts hauling out the stack of Hindi medical journals from the cubby next to the phone to make room, Foreman says, "You can put those in the cupboard under the coffee maker. _Behind_ the coffee."

"They're phone books," Taub says, with the annoyed air of imparting obvious wisdom. "They go by the phone."

"Not in this office," Foreman says, and it's hard to believe Taub doesn't know that. Hell, it's hard to believe there was a time when _he_ didn't know that. He remembers how Chase grinned when he first asked after the latest issue of _JAMA_\--he'd seen it come in the mail, but Cameron must have put it somewhere before he could read it.

"It's around," Chase said, with a nod at House's office, and even then, two and a half days into his new job and bored out of his skull, Foreman knew better than to go searching, and he never would have dared to move something of House's.

Not because he was afraid--which, by now, he realizes would have been the sensible reason, the reason Taub should have. But simply because he knew, even then, that it wasn't worth it. There were bigger things to fight about. There still are: so Foreman does the paperwork, and Foreman shelves the reference texts, and when Foreman tells House _no_, he's at least had a lot of mindless time to think about why.

Maybe it's because Foreman had a proper interview--at least, Wilson sat in the lounge chair behind him, clearing his throat promptingly once or twice and finally asking him a few questions about Marty's practice in L.A. Foreman tried to answer over his shoulder while still directing his words at House--who was brooding over a Magic 8 ball and sneering at his answers. The point is, he was _interviewed_, which is more than any of these pseudo-candidates can say. He was never made to play _games_, and he wouldn't have taken the job if he'd known.

Well, he wouldn't have taken the job _then_. And now--well, it's hardly as if he has a choice.

A week after his first case with House, he and Chase had a running bet: they'd take turns moving one of House's books, at random, to any other part of the office or conference room. The book had to have at least one other text, journal, or binder between it and its proper location; beyond that, anything was game. Whoever moved the book that House missed, raged after, or searched for first, lost the bet--for twenty bucks a week; it was worth a few drinks, a lunch, a movie.

Foreman didn't always play; there were weeks when it felt so completely pointless, so childish, that he rolled his eyes and didn't bother. Chase kept at it, even after Foreman lost interest, but it was more House's reaction that he seemed to be looking for, and the stories that somehow, occasionally, came out about each one.

The 2002 Hospital Employee Handbook, that Foreman was so certain of that he didn't simply move it over, but put it three shelves away behind the phrenology head: House frowned and started the search twenty minutes later, and finally snagged it out of Foreman's hands, saying, "Have you ever seen Cuddy's hooker heels, the black ones, three inches, that scream fuck me every time she walks through a room?" House shook his head and sighed appreciatively. "I did, after she handed me that book of lies, nonsense, and legalese. I'm keeping it until the day I do again."

And the copy of the article on Erdheim-Chester's that had been gathering dust for twelve years: Foreman slivered it between an endocrinology text and an old dog-eared romance novel, certain that he might as well have handed over his twenty to Chase directly, but running out of time--that one stayed lost for eight months, until even Foreman forgot it was there, and House's slow, burning, almost silent anger when he finally found it again was so strange that Foreman gave up on the game altogether.

Foreman doesn't know what Chase gained from making House seethe, or from time to time "miraculously" retrieving a book they'd all thought was gone forever. For himself, he simply marveled that if a book was so much as one place away from true, as far as House was concerned, it was _lost_. He couldn't see it; he would look mercurially, glancing at one shelf and then moving across the room to another, flitting from one stack of journals to the next, always looking in one specific spot and seeming almost shocked when he couldn't lay his hands on what he wanted. He had no system, no idea of how to conduct an orderly, quartering-the-room search. But he never lost his keys, no matter where he tossed them that morning (the pencil jar, a desk drawer, the conference table under a spread of newspapers). And if nothing had been tampered with, then he could reach without looking and come up with the exact reference he needed, without hesitation.

So Foreman tilts his head and smiles at Taub, who's probably shuffling the Hindi journals out of their complete (and perfect) disorder: "Behind the filters," he says, "under the drip," and he could explain that House never calls a number he doesn't know, and he knows every number he needs to: Wilson's, Cuddy's, his fellows' pagers, and take-out. If he did need a number, it would only be because of what he expected to learn, and that was easier to foist off on a minion than to look for himself, especially if he got to watch said minion scurry.

"Seriously," Taub says, as though it pains him to explain it, "these are two years old, and they're in Hindi."

Foreman nods agreeably. "And the main article's been completely disproven," he says. "Why not toss them, while you're at it."

Taub stops, rolls his eyes, and finally gets it. "House did the disproving, right?"

Foreman shrugs, and smirks at Taub's back when he heads for the conference room and the coffee maker. Anyone who's worked for House long enough knows the system; he learned it from Cameron, who gleaned it from Chase, who probably got the tablets carved by Wilson, the guru on the mountain top. Taub, and the others, will figure it out soon enough.

Four years, Foreman thinks, as he returns to his newspaper and the list of contacts he's slowly rebuilding after the disastrous job hunt of a month ago. Four years, and if he needs a five-year-old back issue of _Neurology_ then he looks under House's TV, and if the patient's symptoms are pointing to lupus then there's a text that isn't hollowed out for House's secret stash if he climbs on a chair and checks above the microwave.

Four years, and now Foreman hides a laugh even before House insults one of his new playthings; four years, and Foreman knows when to step aside and when to stand in the way. House knows how he's been blackballed, but when the jibes come Foreman easily turns them away, back to the patient, back to the medicine, and House gives him quick, quirking glances and lets himself be diverted.

Foreman wonders if he's been stacked and filed as neatly as all the clutter in House's life, one more object that stays in its place, knows its purpose, fills its function. He wonders if it made any impression at all when he quit, when he left--except House never seemed surprised. Angry, disappointed, enough to be an asshole about it (though there's nothing different about that)--but never caught off guard. He was more interested when Foreman decided to stay.

When House comes in, he sees the mess of journals that Taub left behind and mutters that the evil of von Lieberman lives on. Foreman lets his newspaper drop and watches him, the precise way each journal goes back where it belongs. There's nothing obvious about it: House shoves the stack together like he's sweeping a mess under a rug, but Foreman can tell he's checking each one as it flicks by.

House stomps into the conference room next, going to the coffee maker, upset again when the filters are out of place. Foreman grins, and House notices while the coffee's brewing.

"The maid service around here is terrible," he says pointedly, but Foreman only shrugs. The thing about House's organizational system is that everything's found eventually. House doesn't let anything _stay_ lost, no matter how long it takes.

"Thought you were supposed to be making sure this place doesn't burn down around Cuddy's ears," House tries next.

Foreman grins wider, smirks really. "Cleaning up after you isn't literally my job," he says. Then, because he knows exactly where it will lead, "The patient's improving on steroids."

House snorts to himself. _Boring, boring, the case is solved, I don't care_, he says, although what he actually says is more along the lines of "No thanks to you. You can't _quite_ get over wanting to irradiate away their immune systems, can you?" which continues into a rant on each of his candidates' failings.

It's easy to ignore; Foreman raises one impassive eyebrow and waits for House to finish. It's strange to be back here, so far removed from everything Foreman thought he wanted; and yet--somehow--he's happy. Instead of listening, he remembers the look on House's face--uncertain, bewildered, _surprised_\--when something he's certain of goes missing.

Four years, he thinks.

And, while House isn't watching, Foreman calmly moves himself one space to the left.

_end_


End file.
